Heaven's Light

by Hurley, Graham

  He lay back in the water, kicking for the deep end, feeling the muscle tighten in his bad leg. Inventing answers to questions like these was the best relaxation after a hectic week in the law courts, and he closed his eyes, letting his fantasies off the leash. She’d be a stranger in the city, someone down for the weekend, staying in the hotel. She’d be in her late twenties, maybe younger. She’d have a career, something glamorous. She’d be in fashion, or the media, or high finance. She’d have a regular boyfriend, she might even be married, but just now she was down on some kind of liaison.

  Barnaby warmed to the story. She’d have a room upstairs, somewhere discreet with a huge bed and a view of the Isle of Wight, and just now she’d be killing time, waiting for her man. This guy might be part of the D-Day jamboree. He might be one of the media people, a cameraman, say, or a producer. God knows, he might even be one of Clinton’s boys, a White House insider, a political heavyweight with a direct line to the President. Barnaby nodded in approval, trying to imagine the man, then – abruptly – his body came to rest in the water, his head cushioned from the tiled wall by something soft. His feet found the bottom and he stood up, pushing back the goggles. A woman was sitting on the edge of the pool. She was wearing a black Speedo one-piece, modestly cut. She had a strong, open face and her hair, drawn back, was beginning to grey at the temples. Barnaby blinked. Beyond the tall plate-glass windows, the gym was empty. The woman slipped into the pool. Her face and shoulders were pinked with recent exercise.

  ‘Funny,’ she said, ‘I knew it was you.’

  The smaller of the two bars was at the front of the hotel, overlooking the street. They sat at a table beside the window, Barnaby nursing a long glass of orange juice and soda. The last time he’d seen Kate Frankham in the flesh had been the winter of ’92. The photos in the local paper since had done her less than justice.

  ‘So how does it feel? Being famous?’

  ‘Famous?’ She laughed. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m impressed.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘By what you’ve done. Heritage Chair in less than a year? That’s some going.’

  Kate ducked her head, trying to hide the grin, but when she looked at him again it was still there, as irrepressible as ever. She’d never been less than candid with him, an honesty he’d occasionally found difficult to handle.

  ‘I’ve had the time,’ she said simply. ‘And the opposition’s not up to much. Not in local politics.’

  ‘You mean the Tories?’

  ‘No, our lot. The comrades. Labour. We’ve got some good people, but not enough of them. If you put your mind to it, anyone could get there. It just needs application.’

  ‘And time. Like you said.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘that, too.’

  She broke off, looking at him, and Barnaby found himself reaching defensively for the plastic card lying beside her purse. He tapped the date beneath the photo. Her annual membership had nearly run out.

  ‘You come here a lot?’

  ‘Most days, first thing normally. It’s quieter then. I do as much as I can, half an hour, forty minutes, shower, then back home. The place is a rip-off but I need the discipline. Otherwise, you know,’ she gestured at herself dismissively, ‘it all falls apart.’

  Barnaby shook his head. ‘You look great,’ he said frankly.

  ‘I feel it.’

  Barnaby lifted his glass in a silent toast. Kate didn’t respond. An elderly couple shuffled in from the corridor, refugees from the D-Day celebrations. The man, heavy-set and overdressed, settled wearily into an armchair while his wife complained to the barmaid about the heating in the bedrooms. The thermostat was set way too low. They lived in Manitoba. They knew about central heating.

  Kate finally reached for her glass. She was drinking Perrier.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Still married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad it worked out.’ She paused. ‘Truly.’

  Barnaby glanced up, hearing the new note in her voice. He’d brought the affair to an end a year and a half ago, one chilly evening in late February. It happened to be the second anniversary of her decree absolute and she’d cooked a celebratory meal. Afterwards, they’d taken the second bottle of Chablis to bed where she’d presented him with a surprise present, a new recording of The Marriage of Figaro. They’d listened to it for hours, warmed by the alcohol and the plump winter duvet, and they were half-way through the last act before Kate had coaxed the truth from him. He couldn’t leave his wife and family. He couldn’t cope without them.

  Now she was asking him about Jessie. Jessie was nineteen, blonde, quiet, immensely stubborn.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Barnaby said lightly. ‘Same old Jess.’

  ‘University?’

  ‘Didn’t want to. Had the chance but turned it down, silly girl. Went to art college instead.’

  ‘Somewhere nice?’

  ‘Here. Pompey.’

  ‘You sound disappointed.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘But doesn’t it help, having her at home?’

  ‘She isn’t at home.’

  ‘She doesn’t live with you?’

  ‘No, hasn’t for a while. She’s got a flat – some basement place, as far as we know.’

  ‘You’ve never been there?’

  Barnaby shook his head, then shrugged when she asked him why. He knew where this conversation might lead and he wasn’t keen to follow. A big limousine swept past outside, flanked by police motorcyclists.

  ‘Tell me about the political stuff,’ he said brightly. ‘My spies tell me you’re brilliant in committee. What’s the secret?’

  ‘Bluff and bullshit.’ She grinned at him again, reaching for her sports bag and getting up. ‘You should know that.’

  Outside, in the car park, he waited beside her Audi while she searched for the keys. A man’s leather jacket lay on the back seat. She saw him looking at it as she reached up to kiss his cheek.

  ‘His name’s Billy,’ she said, ‘in case you were wondering.’ She slipped the sports bag off her shoulder, then nodded towards Southsea Common. The thump-thump of a marching band came and went on the wind. ‘So why aren’t you with the royals? Like everyone else I know?’

  Barnaby was still looking at the jacket, remembering the lone figure in the gym. Set after set of repetitions. So fit. So supple.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The royals,’ Kate said again. ‘Why aren’t you out there with them?’

  ‘I wasn’t invited.’ He frowned. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me? You’re joking.’

  ‘You had an invite?’

  ‘Of course. Heritage Chair. Comes with the turf.’

  Barnaby stared at her. ‘You had an invite? And you still didn’t go?’

  ‘God, no. Sundays are special. Always have been.’ She smiled at him. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  She unlocked the door, not waiting for an answer, and Barnaby stepped aside, letting her get in. Excitement still smelled of shower gel and Diorella. Kate wound down the window and Barnaby did his best to return her smile.

  ‘Take care,’ he said, his eyes going back to the jacket.

  Jessie Barnaby warmed her hands on a mug of hot water, willing the doorbell to ring. Haagen had left his keys, just like the last time. They lay on the floor beside the mattress. They must have fallen from his pocket when he’d pulled on his jeans, struggling towards the door, desperate to make the eleven o’clock meet. They’d both overslept, same old scene, Haagen getting in a muddle with the alarm settings on the electric clock. Haagen-time, she’d taken to calling it. Two parts vodka to one part smack.

  She got up and began to circle the empty living room. The basement flat was sparsely furnished and even in midsummer the damp was almost tangible, a permanent presence, the lodger that had never left. It made everything smell. It made ever
ything sticky. Whatever she did – aerosols, joss sticks, an hour or two’s madness with the electric fire – the damp was always there, sour, malevolent, occasionally foul. She sipped the water, pulling Haagen’s heavy army greatcoat around her, trying to ease the cramps in her shoulders and back. From time to time, barefoot on the greasy lino, she began to shudder, and then she had to pause, tensing herself, shutting her eyes, squeezing hard until the spasm went away.

  It had been like this before, often before, but never this bad and never this long. She’d woken up early, four in the morning, dawn, and she’d wanted to tell Haagen then, but he’d been out of it, his thin body curled round hers, his breath featherlight on the back of her neck, and she’d propped herself on one elbow, smoking a couple of roll-ups until sleep had finally returned with the whine of the milk float in the street outside. She was there to take care of Haagen. He needed to rest. He was truly all she had.

  The television in the corner flickered briefly and for a moment she thought it was going to give up again but then the signal strengthened and Southsea Common slipped back into focus and in close-up came the rows and rows of faces with whom she’d shared the last hour or so. The Queen. The Queen Mum. Prince Philip. Charles. Anne. The television was a cheap portable, a trophy from one of Haagen’s less successful break-ins and the grainy black-and-white pictures somehow added to her icy sense of detachment. These people were real, she knew they were. They were close, too, just up the road. But caged inside this tiny set, emptied of all colour, they’d become somehow remote, visitors from outer space.

  She sipped at the water and wondered about risking a slice of toast. Haagen had rigged up a little two-ring electric stove, bypassing the meter, and she knelt beside it, careful not to touch the bare wires. She thought there were a couple of slices of bread in the kitchen next door but when she went through to check she found the mice had got there first.

  Beside the stove was the glass jar Haagen had brought her back the last time he’d been to Amsterdam. It was brown and fluted, and on one side it carried a gaudy stencil of a canal scene. Lately, Jessie had taken to using it as a candle holder. The flame from the candle threw a strange golden light through the glass, and if she got on her knees and looked hard at the stencil she could almost persuade herself that the barges on the canal were moving. She lit the candle now, warming her hands over the open throat of the jar. It was the only present Haagen had ever given her, and she protected it with a fierce reverence.

  She carried the jar back to the living room and slipped under the blanket, staring across the room at the television. A big grey ship was ghosting past the war memorial while the commentator talked about a unique moment of history. Then the picture began to flicker again and Jessie thought of Haagen, how he was getting on, whether he’d remember which pub to go to. They were open all day today. It was part of the celebrations. She started to shiver again, and then the trembling became uncontrollable and her hands rose to her face and her nose began to run and she was up on her feet, walking back and forth, the greatcoat pulled around her.

  Moments later, a shadow fell across the basement window and she heard Haagen’s footsteps pause as he kicked at the abandoned cans and chip bags that littered the steps down from the street. He was still at it when she opened the door for him, standing back as he and the dog pushed past the stolen bicycles in the unlit hall, making their way to the kitchen. She heard the splash of water as Haagen turned on the tap. Then she was behind him in the semi-darkness, ready with the syringe, watching him unfolding the wrap, marvelling at the care he took, the way he held the paper between his fingers, funnelling the powder into the bowl of the waiting spoon, topping it up with water, not a fleck lost, not a drop spilled.

  He turned on one of the rings on the electric stove, warming the spoon, watching the powder dissolve. Then he sucked the liquid into the barrel of the syringe, easing back the plunger. She was still behind him, transfixed by the blur of his hands as he began to shake the syringe, ignoring the bulldog’s wet snout pushing at the back of her knee. Haagen went across to the window, holding up the syringe to the light; he shook it some more, and a third time, before he came back to her with that same little smile on his face.

  She had the greatcoat half off by now, one arm already extended. He made her flex it a couple of times, then he put the syringe to one side and slipped the leather belt from his jeans, winding it around her arm, inches above the elbow. He tightened the belt to the usual notch, then retrieved the syringe. His fingers probed the soft flesh on the inside of her forearm, tracing the line of the raised vein until he found the spot he wanted, massaging it softly with his thumb before inserting the needle. The needle didn’t hurt. It hadn’t hurt for months. She watched the little trickle of blood find its way across her pale flesh as he entered the vein, and then she closed her eyes and nodded the way he liked her to, and he eased down on the plunger, emptying the syringe and loosening the belt, watching her all the time.

  She stiffened with expectation, and then gasped, falling away from him, groaning as the smack hit her brain and the pain dissolved. The wave that had taken her began to curl, sucking her upwards, making her giddy, and she reached out for support, beginning to panic, aware that something was going horrifically wrong.

  At her feet, the dog began to growl. It was the last sound she remembered.

  Hayden Barnaby walked the half-mile back from the hotel. His route took him west, towards the corner of the island they called Old Portsmouth. He’d always loved the area – the narrow cobbled streets around the cathedral, the timber-fronted pubs, the smell of diesel and fish heads from the Camber Dock – and one day he’d promised himself he’d buy a house here. Everyone had told him he was daft – the noise, the tourists, the drunks at weekends – but he’d ignored them, bidding for a property in the street that led down to the seaward fortifications.

  The house itself was odd. Like the rest of the city, Old Portsmouth had suffered heavily during the Blitz and the post-war years had seen a rash of rebuilding. Much of it was undistinguished, brick façades, flat roofs, but the architect for 20 Farthing Lane had tried a little harder, and constructed a modern three-storey house that blended surprisingly well with its Georgian neighbours. Inside, the property was like nothing else Barnaby had ever seen before: open-plan, lots of light and space, polished wooden floors, subtly lit alcoves and a wrought-iron staircase that wound upwards, giving access to the rooms above.

  At the top of the house, the master bedroom looked east, over the ruins of the Garrison church, and beyond the long line of seventeenth-century fortifications lay the deep-water shipping lane that dog-legged out to the Solent and the English Channel. French windows opened onto a rooftop terrace and the day Barnaby had first viewed the property, he’d stood in the fitful sunshine with the wind in his face, watching one of the big cross-Channel ferries nosing out through the line of buoys. The rain had come and gone, washing the air clean, and the ferry had seemed close enough to touch, the water boiling at its stern, rags of smoke torn sideways by the wind. That single image had proved indelible, and every morning, when he woke up and stood at the bedroom window, he still marvelled at the limitless variations in the view. The flat, gunmetal greys that preceded an incoming weather front. The fat-bellied storm clouds that arrived hours later. The boisterous greens and blues that signalled the end of the rain. He loved it, depended on it. In so many ways it had become a consolation.

  Barnaby saw his wife from the street. She was sitting in a deckchair on the roof terrace. She had a glass in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other. He waved up at her but she was looking east, towards Southsea Common. Barnaby let himself into the house. His study was on the first floor, the desk by the window, books and files everywhere. He left his sports bag behind the door, climbing the stairs again. The big velvet curtains in the master bedroom were stirring in the wind. He stepped out into the sunshine, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, feeling her stiffen momentarily beneath his touch. S
he was wearing the towelling robe he’d given her for Christmas. The bottle of Tio Pepe on the table beside her was nearly empty.

  He bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She lowered the binoculars and looked up at him, shielding her eyes against the sun.

  ‘You missed Illustrious,’ she said absently. ‘I thought you’d be back.’

  Barnaby shook his head. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. He went to the railings: half a mile away he could see the reviewing stand they’d built on the Common for the memorial service. Beyond it lay a small tented city for the thousands of returned veterans. The service, he thought, must be nearly over. He turned back, easing the ache in his leg. Liz was looking up at him. Lately, she’d put on a lot of weight and it showed in her face, blunting her features. Hard to believe she’d once been a model.

  She was offering him the bottle. He shook his head, said he’d prefer tea. She sighed, getting up. She was a tall woman, keenly aware of the impact she always made on men. Lately, she’d taken to wearing dresses with deeply scooped necklines, emphasizing the heaviness of her bust. I’m still in the game, she seemed to be saying. I still count.

  Barnaby waved her back into the deckchair, asking whether she wanted anything to eat. He was thinking of fixing himself a sandwich. He’d bring a plateful up. She looked at him a moment, a vagueness in her eyes, before sitting down again.

  ‘Jessie,’ she said.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s supposed to be coming to lunch.’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘Yes. I dropped a little note into the college a couple of days ago. She phoned back. I thought I’d told you. I’m sure I did.’

  Barnaby shook his head. He remembered no such conversation. Jessie had become another of the no-go areas between them, a minefield you entered at your peril.